“Dallas,” he said, gently, “do you like my grandson?”
“Pretty well, sir.”
“You have pretended to like him better than you do?”
“Yes, I have.”
“You have been making yourself agreeable, hoping that I would change my mind about adopting you?”
“Yes, I have,” he replied, bitterly.
“And when you found you had to go back to New York, what did you plan to do?”
“I didn’t plan to do anything,” said the boy, in a low, fierce tone. “What could I do? Your friend, the clergyman, is as poor as a church mouse; he couldn’t keep me. I’d have to work in some low, dirty place. O, Lord! I wish I had strength enough of mind to poison myself.”
“Dallas,” said the Judge, “are you a lazy boy?”
“Is it laziness to hate smelling, poverty-stricken people and their queer ways, to dread to rub elbows all the time with men and boys that talk horrid, vulgar talk, and that don’t understand you?” asked the boy, almost rudely.